


Put Your Hand in Mine

by protostar (variablestar)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, they all show up eventually tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variablestar/pseuds/protostar
Summary: "Four weeks isn’t bad,” Kawanishi says.“At least,”Shirabu points out.  It could be up to six, if he’s not careful.  “And interhigh’s starting in five.”The frustration he’s been trying to push down is bubbling up.  Four weeks is a long time to be out of commission, and stupid to be over such small bones, that have no reason to hold this level of significance.  Stupid that he’s worked this hard to get this far and for what?  For one stupid ball to hit his finger too hard, to send it too far in the wrong direction, and now he can’t have anything he’s worked so hard for.Shirabu's not sure what to do with himself if he can't play volleyball.  Kawanishi is there to distract him.





	Put Your Hand in Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calmgeyama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmgeyama/gifts).



            He doesn’t realize, at first, that it’s as bad as it is. Shirabu’s jammed and sprained and dislocated his fingers enough that he figures this isn’t any different. He halts in the middle of the volley, clutching his hand close to his body, waiting for the ball to hit the ground so he can ask for a time out from practice to get his hand looked at, his fingers taped.

 

            Kawanishi notices before the spike Shirabu doesn’t move to block hits the floor. He’s observant like that, fine-tuned to know by now as soon as someone gets injured. From directly across the net, he’s already reaching for Shirabu’s hand when the next point is added to the score. Shirabu tells him it’s nothing, but still lets him see, still holds out his hand and watches Kawanishi’s usual mask of indifference, waiting for him to look back up and tell him off, and then they can go off to the side for him to tape it because Kawanishi always does a neater job of it anyway.

 

            This is not what happens.

 

            What happens is concern washes over Kawanishi’s features, and when Oohira comes up behind him to see what’s going on, he immediately winces. And Shirabu doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know what’s going on, why Kawanishi’s fingers are so light and tentative against Shirabu’s skin like he thinks he’s fragile, why he’s not _saying anything—_

 

            “What’s going on? Did Shirabu-san jam his fingers?” Goshiki bounds over, and he’s about to peer over Oohira’s shoulder to see when Oohira turns and pushes him back, pulling a smile.

 

            “No worries!” he says, even though it’s clearly lie. “Get some water while we have the break.”

 

            Kawanishi meets Shirabu’s gaze, and Shirabu _hates_ it. Kawanishi’s supposed to give him shit and tape him up and they can move on and keep playing. He’s not supposed to stand there with nothing to say, looking _sorry_ for him.

 

            Semi’s the one that finally comes out with it, the second he steps up next to Kawanishi, “That looks broken.”

 

            Which is the last thing Shirabu wants to hear. It can’t be broken. He can still play with jams and sprains, can deal with the bruising and swelling it comes with. It doesn’t take away his ability to set or block or receive. He can’t play with something broken.

 

            Maeda, the manager, comes over then, when it’s clear something is wrong and Shirabu isn’t going off to the side of the court like he should. He moves everyone back to give them some space, and Shirabu’s hand slips from Kawanishi’s hold.

 

            It’s not until Maeda gets him to the nurse that Shirabu actually looks. He immediately regrets it, flinching away at the sight of his crooked finger. Everything about it screams _wrong_. He does not want to think about what this means, does not want to think about the pitiful look on Kawanishi’s face.

 

            He’s silent while the nurse gets his finger into a splint, keeps his voice neutral as he calls his mother, and does his best to remain pulled together all through the visit to the doctor’s office. He flinches at the x-rays and ignores the thought of interhigh soon approaching. He’s got four texts from Kawanishi by the time he’s back in his dorm, eight from Goshiki, and two from Semi. All of them go unanswered.

 

            Out of play for at least four weeks.

 

            The looming self-pity spiral will help nothing, Shirabu knows. He’s going to get nowhere sitting around moping, and it’s still early enough that Kawanishi will be in his room watching anime Shirabu doesn’t get in lieu of studying, so he grabs his math homework and goes down the hall to find him.

 

            Kawanishi looks the barest hint surprised when Shirabu opens his door, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Just pulls another pillow off his bed and onto the floor so the frame doesn’t dig into Shirabu’s back when he sits against it, and lowers the volume on his laptop. He’s watching the one with the psychic kid that’s supposedly good, but Shirabu gets too distracted trying to watch it with him, so he always ends up lost.

 

            He intends to be casual about it. Work on his homework while Kawanishi comments on what he’s watching, regardless of the fact that Shirabu doesn’t know who any of the characters are. Get Kawanishi to do his reading for class, steal a handful of the shitty kale chips he can’t stop eating when he’s in here. This is going to be a proper distraction from the thoughts swirling through the edges of his mind — the same routine as any other night, to hold off on the thought that things are about to be different.

 

            Kawanishi has other ideas, apparently.

 

            “How is it?” he asks, eyes focused on the screen even as Shirabu drops down onto the floor beside him.

 

            Shirabu clenches his jaw and forces himself to say, “Four weeks, at least, until it’s healed.”

 

            Kawanishi looks at him then, looks down where his hands are set in his lap. Expectant. Reluctantly, Shirabu lifts the broken one towards him, and Kawanishi’s fingers graze his skin, dancing around the splint, inspecting the tight bandaging wrapped around the finger.

 

            “Four weeks isn’t bad,” he says.

 

            _“At least,”_ Shirabu points out. It could be up to six, if he’s not careful. “And interhigh’s starting in five.”

 

            The frustration he’s been trying to push down is bubbling up. Four weeks is a long time to be out of commission, and stupid to be over such small bones, that have no reason to hold this level of significance. Stupid that he’s worked _this hard_ to get _this far_ and for what? For one stupid ball to hit his finger too hard, to send it too far in the wrong direction, and now he can’t have anything he’s worked so hard for.

 

            He came here to play. He worked his ass off studying to get into Shiratorizawa on a scholarship, so he could play volleyball, and if he can’t participate in this next tournament—

 

            It’s an overreaction, he knows. But knowing that only frustrates him further, because as stupid as he’s aware it is, he can’t stop it.

 

            There are tears pricking his eyes that he can’t stop, and Kawanishi’s still carefully cradling his hand. It’s a familiar hold, with how he’s always been the one to tape Shirabu’s fingers when he needs it. He does a better job of it — neater and tighter and prettier. It’s just not usually so hesitant.

 

            “I’m not going to be able to play,” he chokes out. “I’m not going to get to—“ He bites down on his lip, stopping short. He knows Kawanishi’s not going to judge him for being pathetic, for being stupid. There’s a reason, after all, that he’s Shirabu’s best friend.

 

            “Four weeks,” Kawanishi reminds him. “Less time than Goshiki had that unfortunate haircut.”

 

            “Goshiki always has an unfortunate haircut,” Shirabu mutters. But he knows what Kawanishi’s doing, bringing up the too short, uneven bangs he sported for the entire first two months of being on the team. He means to distract.

 

            Kawanishi shrugs, tightens the thin strap around Shirabu’s splint. And then he goes back to his anime, saying something about black vinegar, and Shirabu doesn’t even pretend to get it before he looks to his math assignment. He has to pull his hand out of Kawanishi’s absentminded hold to get anything done.

 

            Shirabu doesn’t go to morning practice. He figures there’s not much of a point to have to sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else playing, getting ready for the upcoming tournament. He’s got to study, anyway. Has to keep up his grades to keep his scholarship, the only reason he’s able to be here to play in the first place, and now he can’t even do that.

 

            Okay, so, maybe he uses the time to sleep in. But whatever. The mind works better when well rested, that’s a scientific thing, this is still helping his grades. He can also totally rub it in Kawanishi’s face and watch him scowl at the fact that while Shirabu was sleeping, he was running laps in the chilly morning air.

 

            He knows he has to show up to afternoon practice, if nothing more than to be respectful, to be supportive of his team. He’s dreading it, can feel it like sinking stones in his stomach at the thought of being in the gym and not being allowed onto the actual courts. Not being able to give any tosses to Ushijima, not to see the sour look on Kawanishi’s face when Shirabu goes for a dump shot instead and renders his block useless. Not being able to _play_.

 

            Shirabu drags his feet the whole way.

 

            Semi and Tendou both turn to him in the club room as soon as he opens the door to come in. Tendou’s grabby, reaching for Shirabu’s hand telling him to let him see, let him see, how bad’s it anyway, and Semi does Shirabu the favor of swatting at Tendou’s arms and telling him to give him space. But he does also give Shirabu an expectant look, and Shirabu knows he’s going to have to say something eventually.

 

            Kawanishi, then, didn’t tell them anything. Washijou, either, even though he was the first person Shirabu told about his predicament before he even returned to his dorm. He’s not sure whether he’d prefer it if they had.

 

            “I’m out for four weeks,” Shirabu says. “Until it’s fixed.”

 

            Four _to six_. To six if he messes it up, and then he’s not allowed to play for even longer, and—

 

            “Your tie looks like shit.”

 

            Shirabu narrows his eyes at Kawanishi’s entrance. “Not my fault. Hard to do when you’re short a finger. This is as good as it’s getting.”

 

            “Is that also your excuse for missing a button on your shirt?”

 

            _“Shut up.”_

 

            “Sloppy, Kenjirou.” Kawanishi looks like he’s going to smile, and while Shirabu appreciates this to some capacity, he’s got _no room_ to talk when he doesn’t even remember to wear his uniform tie half the time.

 

            He sits on the bench for most of practice, observing. At least, that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s more like fighting to maintain composure even as he watches Semi tossing to Ushijima, as Oohira makes a miracle save. He itches to be a part of the practice, and aches with the knowledge that he _can’t_.

 

            Four weeks.

 

            Shirabu winds up in Kawanishi’s room, after dinner is finished and he’s taken a too long shower. He’s got homework to do, and is supposed to do a handful of finger exercises from the doctor. He wants nothing to do with either, so naturally— Kawanishi’s room.

 

            Kawanishi pats the empty space in his bed, and Shirabu sits, legs folded and focus on the familiar opening song to the same anime Kawanishi was watching yesterday. He’s supposed to read for English. He’s got math, and some literature homework, and the finger stretches look stupid, and Shirabu ends up turning Kawanishi’s laptop so he can see the scree, too.

 

            It only lasts a couple episodes, that Kawanishi has to pause explain all the background for, and then he gives in and opens his math notebook. Writing feels awkward like this.

 

            Everything feels awkward. Awkward and wrong and he spent twenty minutes trying to get his tie right before the frustration got to him and he finally gave up on trying to get the knot perfect.

 

            Shirabu bites his lip and tries to focus in on the dying plant on Kawanishi’s windowsill, tries to direct those thoughts out so he can focus on the things he needs to get done, and not the irritation, not the desperation to get back to everything the way it’s always been and the way it’s supposed to be. He tries to focus on the curling leaves and push out all thoughts of volleyball and crooked x-rays.

 

            He jolts when Kawanishi reaches over, his fingers brushing against Shirabu’s hand. Wordlessly, he lets him take it, lets him inspect the split that’s a pain in the _ass_ to adjust with the same blank face and relaxed shoulders. At least he has this, Shirabu thinks. At least he has the familiarity of Kawanishi.

 

            “This isn’t tight enough,” Kawanishi says, fingers careful and nimble as he readjusts the splint. “You’re not helping anything like that.”

 

            Shirabu has nothing to say. He wordlessly lets Kawanishi hold his hand on his leg and adjust things to his liking. He’s always fussy about these things, and Shirabu figures it’s got something to do with the fact that his older sister is a nurse. He would know best, naturally.

 

            “It’s okay, you know, if you don’t get to play for all the matches,” Kawanishi says, still fixed on Shirabu’s hand. He’s not doing much more than fidgeting with his fingers at this point, but he’s not going to mention anything about it. “And we aren’t playing the first couple rounds anyway, so you’ve got extra time. Not even Semi’s going to steal your place.”

 

            He’s right. Shirabu knows, he’s right. But _what if’s_ still linger in his mind, and it’s stupid. He’s _stupid_. He’s supposed to be stronger than this, better than this. But the fact of the matter is, he’s not. He’s not, and there are tears welling up he still refuses to let fall, because how _lame_ can he be? The waterworks are supposed to be Goshiki’s thing.

 

            Shirabu leans against Kawanishi’s shoulder and stares hard at the laptop screen with the mouse still hovering over the _Play Next Episode_ selection, willing himself not to even think about crying. Not now.

 

            He’s in the same spot three days later, after a long and terrible practice where he just _sat there_ and did _nothing_ other than feel positively miserable. Kawanishi’s started a new anime that’s equally confusing as the last. His shoulder is too bony to truly be comfortable, but resting there is a better alternative than the glaring history textbook sitting beside him.

 

            He aches for a chance to play again. To stand on the court again. He put _everything_ into getting here—

 

            “You know elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump?” Kawanishi’s gaze is trained on Shirabu’s hand, resting palm-up on his leg, where Kawanishi’s fingers distractedly dance across his skin. “All the bones in their legs are pointed down, so they can’t get enough spring to push off the ground.”

 

            At that, Shirabu lifts his head to give him a bewildered look. “Why do you _know_ that?”

 

            “Why don’t you?” Kawanishi counters. “They can use their feet to listen.”

 

            “That’s a lie.”

 

            “What reason would I have to lie about that?” The corner of Kawanishi’s mouth lilts upwards, and Shirabu rolls his eyes and settles back against his side.

 

            There’s a routine they settle into. It doesn’t involve getting much homework done at all, like Shirabu tells himself he intends to be doing, but after afternoon practices, they’ll settle into Kawanishi’s room, on or against his bed with anime Shirabu always gets too lost to follow, and Kawanishi fills him with facts he has no reason to know, or tells him about class or something stupid Tendou tried at morning practice. It’s comfortable. Shirabu gets used to Kawanishi’s bony shoulder digging into his cheek.

 

            Kawanishi’s careful touch becomes familiar on Shirabu’s hand, be it for fixing his splint or just absentminded fidgeting with all his good fingers.

 

            It doesn’t get easier to go through afternoon practices not stepping onto the court, and he doesn’t stop itching for it. When the frustration wells up, he just tucks himself into Kawanishi’s side and listens to him list off facts about cats that totally aren’t real. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard him talk this much, and doesn’t know what to make of the fact that he’s definitely doing it to distract him.

 

            It’s two weeks later and nearing one in the morning, and the credits for an awful movie are scrolling on the screen of Kawanishi’s laptop, and Shirabu’s half-asleep against him. He doesn’t make Shirabu leave for his own room. He also doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s crying, even though the movie wasn’t at all sad, and even though it’s totally because they played a practice match against a local university and won without him. They could probably get to nationals without him.

 

            A week after, and the splint is off, but Shirabu still can’t play, not until he can actually bend his finger again. Not until it’s really healed. The splint is off, and Shirabu continues visits to Kawanishi’s room, because he’s the distraction he needs.

 

            He tries to do English homework, which makes his head spin with all the irregular verbs he has to work with. It’s not even ten minutes before he’s shoving the workbook away and dropping his head onto Kawanishi’s shoulder. Kawanishi carries on reading a book that’s definitely not for any of his classes, but one hand takes Shirabu’s and tentatively prods at the still healing finger.

 

            “Don’t you have exercises to do so you don’t totally ruin this?” His finger taps Shirabu’s palm, right in the middle, three times before it just rests there. He can’t think of a reason for why that’s as distracting as it is.

 

            “Yeah,” Shirabu mutters. “They look stupid.”

 

            “You have to do them,” Kawanishi says. “Fix yourself.”

 

            Shirabu rolls his eyes, but he knows Kawanishi’s right, and knows he’s never going to get back to playing if he puts these off, no matter how dumb it feels.

 

            This, too, pieces into their regular nightly routine. As soon as Shirabu gives up on assignments, it’s trying to get his finger to bend from a place on Kawanishi’s lap. Working at it little by little while Kawanishi distracts him with more words than Shirabu has ever heard come out of his mouth before, keeping his mind off the fact that interhigh starts this weekend and that trying to even stretch his finger straight up _hurts_.

 

            There is more than one night where Shirabu falls asleep against Kawanishi’s side while Kawanishi reads or loses track of time watching anime.

 

            It’s comfortable. Familiar. He thinks his hand has become Kawanishi’s favorite toy to fidget with.

 

            Interhigh starts, and while some of the upperclassmen go to the gymnasium to watch the live matches, Goshiki, Yamagata, and Oohira end up in Kawanishi’s room, watching the games off his laptop. The three of them sit on the floor, and Kawanishi’s on his bed with Shirabu. He hasn’t been paying much attention to any of the plays. Instead he’s got his focus trained on Shirabu, who’s sprawled on his back with a volleyball, feet in Kawanishi’s lap, trying to work up the courage to try and set it. He wants to be ready. But he’s also scared of trying and finding out he’s not.

 

            “You’ve still got time,” Kawanishi tells him. There’s been a restless, nervous energy about him all week. Shirabu can’t work up to asking what’s up, and tries to ignore it instead. He’ll tell him if he really wants him to know.

 

            Shirabu levels him with a glare, and ignores how Yamagata is clearly listening in. “I’m aware.”

 

            “So don’t push yourself.”

 

            Shirabu’s tired of waiting, though. By the time the weekend’s final match is starting, he’s balanced the ball on the tips of his fingers, and it doesn’t really hurt, and if he can push up, just _toss_ it—

 

            His aim’s off, and it doesn’t come straight back down to Shirabu’s waiting hands, and part of it might be because he’s still scared, but regardless, the ball falling directly onto the top of Goshiki’s head is worth it, just to see Kawanishi _laugh_.

 

            He doesn’t think about what the feeling that comes with that sound means.

 

            Shirabu holds off on trying to set again until later in the week, when it’s just him and Kawanishi, in the actual gym.

 

            He rejoins practice on Friday. He doesn’t start in the first couple matches they play at interhigh, but he’s on the court to send Ushijima the toss that gives them the win for nationals.

 

            There’s something lacking in the proud smile Kawanishi sends him at the end of it.

 

            Practices fit into his routine again, and he’s happy to fit back into the place Semi has been occupying for the last month. He spends less time in Kawanishi’s room, exhausted and sore after being out for so long, and with having homework still to do and not enough time to let himself be distracted. Several nights, he stays to practice late, to get back into the right rhythm, to stretch and work his fingers.

 

            Working out the tense joint was more enjoyable with Kawanishi.

 

            But once he stops going to his room on a nightly basis for more than regular studying, he can’t start back into it again. He doesn’t want to think Kawanishi’s avoiding it, avoiding _him_ , but he’s definitely distant. And Shirabu can’t find the words to say to bring him back. He doesn’t know how to ask for those close, quiet nights back.

 

            There’s an aching longing settled back into his bones, and this time it’s for a place off the court.

 

            It’s for someone off the court.

 

            He doesn’t know what to call these feelings.

 

            Probably, he could just show up to Kawanishi’s room after practice as usual, drop onto his bed and lean into his side and it would be fine. But Kawanishi’s acting far too casual and the distance between them makes Shirabu too anxious, and nationals are coming up and he’s doing nothing. He’s letting them settle into a more casual routine where Kawanishi’s hands never come close to his own.

 

            It’s just, there definitely _are_ feelings, which is a terrifying prospect, because that’s not something Shirabu’s had to _deal with_ before. He’s never _wanted_ to spend so much time with anyone else doing nothing more than watch shows he doesn’t even _get_ — doesn’t even _like_ — curled up together. He’s never had this comfort and never longed for it before, and Kawanishi’s his best friend but he’s been eating lunch without him some days and Shirabu sometimes forgets the stretches without Kawanishi’s reminders.

 

            The thought hits that he’s scared of losing him. But he doesn’t know how to bring him back.

 

            Does Kawanishi know that it hits Shirabu right in the chest every time he offers even the barest hint of a smile?

 

            Oh. _Oh_.

 

            _Does_ he?

 

            Is this why he’s so distant?

 

            Shirabu doesn’t go to his room at all this week, claiming sickness and exhaustion and papers due. He misses the feeling of Kawanishi’s hand in his.

 

            There’s two days to nationals and they’ve got a practice match with a university team. It’s a good game — one that makes all of them work for every point. They’re in the last set and all starting to feel the length of the match, and Shirabu jumps with Goshiki for a block.

 

            He doesn’t know, at first, how bad it is. Shirabu’s jammed and sprained and dislocated his fingers enough that he figures this shouldn’t be any different, but he hasn’t taped his fingers like he should’ve because Kawanishi usually does it and all he can do when he lands back on the ground is clutch his hand close to his body as if that’ll make the pain any less and wait for a time out for it to get checked.

 

            Kawanishi notices before the spike Oohira has to set for hits the ground on the other side of the net. He’s observant like that, fine-tuned to know by now as soon as Shirabu’s injured. From his place on the other edge of the court, he’s immediately coming to his side and reaching for his hand by time the point gets added to the score. Shirabu wants to tell him it’s nothing as he holds out his hand for him to see, but all he can do is try to force air into his lungs as he watches Kawanishi’s face and the concern already painted across it.

 

            Shirabu feels the relief melting through him when the concern fades from Kawanishi’s expression.

 

            “This needs to be taped,” Kawanishi tells him. For a moment, Shirabu thinks he means to have Maeda or someone take care of it, that he’s washed his hands of dealing with Shirabu and his injuries, but then he’s leading Shirabu off the court to get tape while everyone else breaks for water.

 

            It’s nothing more than a jam. That’s all. It’s just a jam, and Kawanishi’s fingers are light on the skin of Shirabu’s hand and careful wrapping the tape around not just the injured finger, but the others that Shirabu usually tapes and has been neglecting as of late.

 

            He’s silent and focused intently on the work, and all Shirabu can do is study Kawanishi’s face, and it’s not entirely voluntary when Shirabu chokes out a breathless, “I missed this.”

 

            Kawanishi’s features go soft for half a second before he looks up with a flat look and says, “What, you missed fucking up your hands?” Shirabu narrows his eyes, because Kawanishi _knows_ what he meant, and it doesn’t take long before Kawanishi’s cracking half a bittersweet smile. “Yeah. I missed this, too.”

 

            It’s later, when they’re both tucked together in Kawanishi’s bed watching a movie Shirabu’s picked out, and Kawanishi’s toying with Shirabu’s fingers that he admits, “I thought you wouldn’t want this anymore. When you didn’t need it.”

 

            And Shirabu’s not sure what to say to that, because that’s so _stupid_ , and, “I’m never not going to want this.”

 

            It’s as close to a confession as either of them gets for a while, but they’re okay with that. They can walk the line for a while, of not being able to admit anything even as Shirabu naps on Kawanishi’s shoulder on bus rides back from matches and Kawanishi starts to take Shirabu’s hand any time he wants his attention. They’ll let it all happen as they go.


End file.
